


Little Red Wolf

by SodiumBicarb



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Stiles, Gen, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Phoenix Jordan Parrish, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 10:43:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8709313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SodiumBicarb/pseuds/SodiumBicarb
Summary: Where Stiles learns magic; Derek isn't the Alpha, Scott is, and where magic is waging a silent war against Beacon Hills.  
(And the Stilinski house is turned into a bed-and-breakfast for the supernatural, but that's neither here nor there.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I've had this first chapter in my computer for a crazy long time and finally got the balls to post it. :D But I also like posting longer chapters than this, so hopefully the next chapter will make up for this length?

Stiles learned magic months ago; practiced how to erect barriers that could dampen senses, knew how to drown enemies with the air in their lungs, knew how to tie a kanima in one form and free it, but he never told them. He learned piece by piece, from whispers on the net, slowly and on his own, and never asked for their help.

He needed it, but couldn’t have it.

They called him Little Red Riding Hood, the lone human in a pack of wolves. Little Virgin, they laughed, Little Child, Little Boy, Little Red. They smiled mysteriously when Derek flung him behind the line of fire, and they shrugged their shoulders when he rushed in front of Erica to stop a fairy (nasty little buggers) from killing her. They indulged in the pack’s fondness for him; they saw him as a mascot rather than a threat, so even as he yelled and snarled, the things that went bump in the night ruffled his hair and continued attacking his pack.

So Stiles learned magic.

Deaton wasn’t teaching him like he was with Lydia, so Stiles turned to the dark web for help. He scourged forums for any hint of the truth, trekked into the woods hex bag ingredients, and looked every part of Little Red Riding Hood, except that the Big Bad Wolf was looking out for him instead of trying to eat him, and he wasn’t as bad as the fairytales said.

Behind him, Derek dragged along a deer, waiting patiently for Stiles to finish.

Such a well-behaved Big Bad Wolf.

After what Stiles dubbed the ‘Gerard Fuck-Up,’ he’d spent more time with the man; partially been because he needed time away from Scott, but mostly because he came to the realization that the rest of the pack were still children. They had forgotten the past already, written them off as night terrors while Stiles and Derek kept re-living the moments. Even Lydia, who constantly saw death, tried to brush off the supernatural as a particularly tough math problem.

While the rest of the pack cheered and drank, Stiles huddled with Derek by the pool and pondered better ways to train and how to track creatures. They prepared for 'next time'; the pack fully believed that it was the end.

“We’ll protect you from the big, bad wolves, Little Red,” Jackson teased.

Stiles ignored him.

The pack thought they proved their worth after the Gerard Fuck-Up. All they’d proved was their luck.

* * *

The calm in Beacon Hills was a welcome relief, but Stiles was afraid that a storm coming. Derek agreed, and he and Scott butted heads constantly.

Scott accused Derek of living in the past, of dragging the pack into a feud that they never wanted. Derek shouldn’t be the Alpha, he said. Derek didn’t know them, didn’t care about them, couldn’t connect to them, he continued.

Derek agreed that those points were true, but that Scott was too new, too immature; he had no idea what he was doing.

“I’ll learn,” Scott pushed. He had Allison backing him, which followed with Chris Argent and Lydia, and which Lydia came Jackson. Everyone assumed that Stiles was with Scott.

(He wasn’t.)

Alone in his corner, Derek nodded and left. He refused to submit to Scott just as Scott refused to submit to him. Stiles was surprised by the civility; he expected there to be ripped throats and missing limbs.

It occurred to him as he watched the straight set of Derek’s spine as he walked away, that Derek considered his pack dead the night the Hale house burned own, that the only reason he tried to rebuild his pack was out of duty to them. Derek walked away so easily because he knew that there would never be a place for him.

* * *

The temperature plummeted a few nights after, and Stiles worried himself awake and did what he always did when he couldn’t sleep; go looking for a body in the woods.

Following his gut, he drove out to the preserve instead of the train depot, and found Derek curled up on the porch, which might as well have been the forest floor. An ear twitched as Stiles switched off the engine and came shivering towards the wolf.

“Hey, come on,” he murmured. The wolf opened an eye lazy before closing it again. It seemed normal, except for the breath frosted around his muzzle.

Stiles clambered over the beams and tugged at the wolf’s fur.

“Let’s go.” Derek stayed put and pretended to sleep.

“I don’t need superhero powers to know that you’re faking,” Stiles snorted, but Derek remained stubborn.

“Look, I’m offering you free room and board; just stay in your wolfy form, and I can tell my dad that I found a stray. He’s never agreed to letting me have pets, but I believe in your puppy eyes,” Stiles convinced with a waggle of his eyebrows.

“Dude-“ Derek rolled over and pointedly stared at the charred remains of a wall, “- I was going to bribe him with bacon anyways, but I’ll make sure that you have the crispiest pieces!” he wheedled. “I won’t even make you eat dog food even though you totally deserve it for that stunt you pulled with the satyrs last week!”

Derek twisted back towards Stiles and snorted into his face.

“Ugh! Dude! Dog breath!”

The wolf stood up, tail wagging happily, and stared at the Camaro.

“We’ll get it tomorrow. Come on, it’s freezing out here.”

The wolf climbed gingerly into the passenger’s seat, curling his claws inwards to protect what was left of Stiles’ baby. The boy pet the furry head approvingly and ignored the subsequent growl.

“Get used to it, buddy. There’s no way Dad’s letting you stay if you’re not housetrained.”

Stiles grinned at the offended aura wafting off the wolf, and wondered idly if this was how Little Red felt when she met the Big Bad Wolf, if she was as happy as he was to find someone else in the lonely, dark forest.

* * *

“He’s a mutt,” Stiles introduced smoothly the next morning. The man assessed the canine whose head peeked over the top of the breakfast table, and raised an eyebrow at his son.

Derek ignored the statement and continued to stare obsessively at the bacon.

“Stiles, that is not a dog. It has to be part, or _all_ wolf,” John sighed, but didn’t back away in fear.

“There are no wolves in California, Dad, which you would know if you took my thesis seriousl-"

"The one from _elementary_ school?"

"-and look," Stiles continued guilessly, "Dogs are not this well-behaved.” Stiles threw a clean spoon into the living room, but the wolf ignored him and instead stole a piece of bacon.

“See? Well-behaved,” Stiles affirmed. Seeing that his father wasn’t convinced, he threw his arms around Derek’s neck and widened his Bambi eyes.

The wolf imitated the Sheriff’s sigh. John nodded approvingly. At the wolf.

“It would be nice to have a guard dog that size, especially with everything that’s been going on,” John relented.

Stiles laughed delightedly and turned towards the canine.

“Hear that Todo? You can stay!”

The wolf ate all the bacon on Stiles’ plate before the teen could stop him. John grinned at pet the wolf on his way out.

* * *

“You know-“ Stiles began as they jogged in the Preserve, “that you don’t have to stay in Beacon Hills, right?” He kept panting at Derek’s dust.

“I mean,” huff “-you could be that old man that no-“ _pant_ , “-one knows that tells kids to get off his lawn.” Stiles planted his ass on the trail and refused to move without drinking the rest of his water bottle. Derek jogged backwards slowly, but remained silent, eyes scanning the forest.

“Like, every town needs one, and Beacon Hills has like, three,” he continued.

“I’m not that old, Stiles,” and there was a faraway look in Derek’s eyes, as if he was lost in a daydream.

Stiles knew that expression well; the dream of starting fresh, the lightness in his steps as he thought about reinventing himself. Stiles related to Derek because he’s had the same daydream.

* * *

They fell into a ritual. The time Stiles used to spend at lacrosse was spent on reading any magical tome he got his hands on. He’d prop the _livre du jour_ open on the living room table with Beowulf’s (Derek picked that name for himself) snout resting in his lap, more interested in the baseball game on tv than the book.

Derek brought what he could from one of the Hale store rooms, which consisted of personal journals than research materials, and were less organized than the Argent’s bestiary. The one he was currently reading was written in a mix of Polish, Latin, and possibly Da Vinci’s handwriting or some lost language. It covered everything from sketches of magical plants to documentation of creatures, and ended as a cookbook for said creatures.

Which was slightly disturbing, but Stiles tried not to judge too much.

Derek’s grasp on magic was shaky at best, but he knew enough that Stiles didn’t have to go running to Deaton, who was cryptic as shit.The man was basically Beacon Hill’s version of Ollivander.

Also, Deaton was definitely training Lydia to be emissary, and since there could only be one in a territory at a time… those two could definitely murder Stiles in his sleep.

So, Stiles kept his magic silent and avoided their eyes because he wasn’t convinced that Legimency wasn’t a real thing.

* * *

Sometimes Stiles had nightmares of Gerard Argent. The man appeared from darkened corners and broke Stiles down with fists and weapons. He spoke truths that dripped like acid down Stiles’ soul. He twisted Stiles’ insides like they were putty, first using words, then with whispers.

Gerard always woke him with phantom bruises that stung as he stumbled towards the bathroom. He used to call Scott, but he didn't understand. Scott answered those calls with sleepy reassurances, feathered by dreams of Allison. Scott told him that it was over, that he shouldn’t worry anymore.

Derek never said things like that. Derek, who dreamt of Kate like how Stiles dreamt of Gerard. Derek, who curled around Stiles in wolf form and let the teen clutch his fur and sob. He never told Stiles that he didn’t have to be afraid, that it was over; he told Stiles that his father was safe, the pack was safe, that every time he panicked, Stiles shouldn’t imagine Gerard’s body. Instead, he should remember his father’s exasperated sigh at the veggie burger, or the way the jeep purred to life.

Derek never told him what to do or how to feel; he listened when Stiles spoke.

Those were the nights that Stiles knew that Scott would never be a good leader, no matter his ‘True Alpha’ status. Scott had an idealistic sense of morality that should never exist past the theories of philosophers. He thought of winning lacrosse, of a fairy-tale ending with Allison. Scott could never tell Stiles to cut off his own arm like Derek could; Scott would never see Gerard and imagine the strength of the man’s punches or the cruelty of his actions, not like Derek could.

Derek, who knew how much crueler humans were than any creature that walked in night. Derek, who couldn’t get a break, who didn’t have a friend or a home or a family to his name.

Sometimes… sometimes it was Derek who clutched at him. He pressed his face into Stiles’ red hoodie, and Stiles built them a blanket fortress where the two of them stood guard all night.

They’re dead, they whispered into the night. Kate and Gerard were burned and salted, yet Stiles felt like he and Derek were the ones who died.

‘We can’t keep doing this,’ he thought to himself.

‘These ghosts are poisoning us.’

* * *

Stiles barricaded Derek in his room with mountain ash the night of the full moon. Derek gnashed at the circle and snapped at Stiles’ silent frame.

Around 3 am, Derek thrashed and ripped pieces of fur and flesh while sleeping.

He was caught in his nightmare, and there was nothing Stiles could do to wake him up that wouldn't end with a mortal injury.

He wondered if Little Red ever felt this helpless, staring at the dark, winding path of the forest with only thte stars to guide her.

* * *

Stiles never paid attention to what Derek did when he was at school. He imagined that the wolf hunted helpless prey on the Preserve, polished the Camaro, or something else banal. It didn’t occur to him that the man worked until a lopsided birdhouse appeared on the porch, followed by a birdfeeder that hung like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The Sheriff gave an amused snort the first time he saw it, but didn’t question why the last Hale was giving them homemade gifts.

“Poor Sheriff skills, Sheriff,” Stiles teased. He was relieved, though, because if his dad asked, Stiles wasn’t sure what lie he would say.

Probably a convincing one. He lied to his dad so often, now.

* * *

"So, Tara told me that Beacon Hills has an animal control problem," John began at breakfast. Stiles placed an plate of waffles on the table.

"And then she asked me if the dog we've been taking care of has been neutered-" Stiles choked, "because it would be hypocritical for the police department to promote neutering if their Sheriff doesn't abide by those rules." He gave Stiles and then Beowulf a meaningful look.

The wolf's wagging tail immediately stopped.

"Uh..." Stiles honestly had no comment for that. Maybe... maybe he could put a cloaking spell on the wolf's genitals?

Beowulf whimpered.

They had to find a solution fast.

* * *

Or Beowulf could disappear for days to circumvent the appointments that John avidly tried to set up.

John didn't comment on how Beowulf was suspiciously absent for the next week even though it rained like a monsoon. When he reappeared, John gave him a quick pat on the head and left for work.

* * *

It would be fair to say that the wolf slept with one eye open in the Stilinski household.

* * *

An omega strolled into Beacon Hills on a Friday morning, and by that night, when the pack were celebrating their lacrosse win, Derek and Stiles caught and trapped the wolf. It was pathetically easy; the omega practically stumbled onto the Stilinski lawn.

“I request sanctuary,” she blurted out.

Stiles glanced at Derek’s silent, staring face, and sighed.

“Why?”

“Rumors are that your pack has an alliance with Hunters,” her eyes darted nervously.

Stiles tilted his head.

“And why does that matter?”

“I-“ she turned towards Derek, eye pleading.

“You need to speak with the Alpha,” the man told her.

“You’re not-?”

He shook his head.

“Not anymore.”

“We’ll grant you sanctuary,” Stiles cut in.

The wolves gaped at him.

“Stiles, you can’t-“

“I have magic and the Sheriff; you have claws. There’s no reason that we can’t offer protection. Besides, it’s not like Scott would know what to do, and he doesn’t even know the wolfy protocols yet. It’ll be fine!” he persuaded.

“Thanks for jinxing us, idiot,” Derek shook his head amusedly.

“Thank you,” she said tiredly. Stiles led her towards the guest bedroom before returning to the living room.

“You knew why she was running,” Stiles declared as he flopped onto the couch.

Derek grunted and turned on the TV.

“Why was she running, Derek?” he asked softly. The wolf curled in on himself.

“There are stretch marks and scar tissue on her neck.”

Stiles nodded. He noticed her uncomfortable posture and the marks.

“It means that she was collared with mountain ash.”

“What?”

Derek’s eye glazed over.

“’Traditional’ Hunters use it to ‘tame’ wolves. Sometimes... sometimes they'll introduce weak strains of wolfsbane into their system to purposefully keep them weak. They 'train' them to sniff out other wolves for Hunters to kill.”

“-the fuck?! Shouldn’t we tell his to Chris?” Stiles sputtered.

Derek shook his head.

“There’s nothing he can do. They don’t follow the Code, and are completely off the grid.”

“There’s no way to track them?”

“Not unless you already know where to look.”

“Great, just great. More crazies running around. Trained crazy,” Stiles muttered.

“Since you gave her Sanctuary, we should probably tell you dad.”

“Tell him what?” Stiles startled.

Derek sighed.

“You gave her Sanctuary.”

“Yes, I know. Like, it was totally a vocab word my freshman year. He won’t be back until tomorrow morning,” Stiles snorted.

“A Sanctuary.”

“Did you just capitalize the S? Because I feel like you did, but I can’t see spoken word, so…” Stiles flailed.

Derek shook his head.

“When a ‘spark’ says it in front of a witness, it becomes magically binding.”

“Excuse me? Did you just say that I have entered a magical contract? Dude, no one gave me fine print to read, and I haven’t signed anything,” Stiles gestured wildly. The werewolf shrugged.

“Ok, ok ok ok ok ok. What does being a ‘Sanctuary’ entail?” he asked with air quotes.

“Sanctuaries are neutral grounds. They’re middle way houses for creatures,” Derek explained.

“Is there anything I need to do? Like, put a sign on the door or paint the house blue?”

Derek shrugged again.

“Magic will take care of it.”

“Story of my life,” Stiles muttered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Any grammar mistakes or comments are much welcomed. ;)


End file.
